


'Til Death Do Us Part

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Kitten Licks: The Side Stories from the Roaring Hot AU [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War 1, F/M, First Meetings, Lightly Beta'd: Clicking the Seatbelt Prior to Jumping Off the Cliff, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Dancing, Period Typical Language, SIDE STORY TO THE ROARING HOT SERIES LIKE SERIOUSLY Y'ALL READ THAT FIRST, Suprise! Sweetness and Light!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25416808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Remember when I wrote:Pepper relieves him by laughing, “Yeah, mine began with a kiss, too.  Outside, under the stars on the balcony at a party of my husband’s business associates, one he couldn’t wiggle out of, a small gathering.  I remember the look on Tony’s face when I walked in on Lord Pott’s arm, he looked like he’d been slapped, and then he’d danced with me, after dinner, when Lord Potts retired for a brandy and a cigar. He barely said two words the whole time, just looked at me, watched me.”  She smiles wryly, shaking her head.LET'S SEE THAT IN BETTER DETAIL, SHALL WE?
Relationships: Pepper Potts/OMC- Lord Marc Potts, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Series: Kitten Licks: The Side Stories from the Roaring Hot AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605271
Comments: 34
Kudos: 64





	'Til Death Do Us Part

**Author's Note:**

> Last chance.
> 
> This is a SIDE STORY for the ACTUAL STORY of Roaring Hot. If you haven't read Roaring Hot, this is going to be a very confusing experience for you. Good luck, you crazy bastard.
> 
> Barely beta'd because, y'all, I make them beta so hard on the actual stuff, I'm not going to waste their talent here. But a leetle bit beta'd because mindwiped has been asking and asking about Pepper's story and I finally had the time to write it down for her.
> 
> This one's not really darkfic? I don't think?

Pepper- Lady Virginia Potts- sighed, and stretched her fingers from their anxious fist under the table. They ached. Her cheeks ached, too. She suspected that only the tension in her back and neck kept her chin lifted.  
  
Another delightful dinner perfectly conducted, conversation navigated and pleasant laughter carefully cultivated, and yet Marc sent her his customary glower from his end of the table. Pepper thought back to that first night, when he’d seemed so glamorous- the Lord from London- so full of smiles, so- so- _well_. A young girl’s fancies and fairytales about Prince Charming.

Pepper’s cheeks ached as she smiled and nodded at Lady Amelia, graciously agreeing, “Well, the cut was a little audacious, but overall, well turned out.”

“Of course you’d think that,” said the old General, rolling his eyes and wiping his mouth, the light of battle in his eyes as he leaned back and tapped the table with impatient fingers, “all you Colonials are alike. Audacious _is_ turned out to you upstarts.”

For one second Pepper’s smile was genuine as she met his eyes, and she saw the acknowledgement in them as he nodded at her, his eyes softening a second in kindness. The General was a regular at Marc’s functions, invited because he leant every gathering the dignity it needed, the gravitas of his title and position, without an ounce of drama or flair to discolor it. The General knew how to _behave_ , thought Pepper with a deep inner sigh of gratitude for the man. Luckily for her in the first years of her marriage, he also knew how to _teach._

Lady Augusta sipped her port and raised an eyebrow at Pepper, who smiled broadly at the General and said lightly, “Did you find the women of the West Indies so audacious, then, my Lord?”

“I didn’t find ‘em at all, what what, didn’t dare go looking,” he blustered back at her, making his wife titter and raise her fan to hide her blush. The Baroness was scandalously younger than her husband, although you had to give it to the General for consistency- all three of his wives had been a bright, happy, and above all _grateful_ twenty-three on their wedding days, and according to gossip among the high set, every one of them could have worn the same dress. The latest Baroness was sweet, though, and they seemed happy enough with their match, as July-September mismatched as it was.

Pepper suppressed another sigh. When had _happy enough_ become an unattainable dream, a young girl’s foolish fairytale?

The Baroness leaned into her husband slightly and said, across the table to Lady Augusta, “Speaking of finding, how goes the search for your sister’s beau?”

“Oh, it’s all such a muddle, I do believe we may engage your assistance in America, Madam,” said the woman, with a puff of irritated air across the surface of her port and a wicked look at Pepper.  
  
Pepper did not allow her eyes to narrow and instead murmured serenely, “Alas that I have no brothers to offer you, my Lady.”

“It’s her unfortunate chin, far too weak,” sighed Lady Augusta, which was only slightly unfair to her sister’s chin. There was, after all, the girl’s personality, as well.

“That’s pish tosh,” interjected the General, his wild eyebrows flying downward. “Why, in my youth, weakness of chin was the hallmark of the best wives!”

There was a general titter to this, as well. The General, thought Pepper with relief, would always be welcome at any table where Lady Virginia Potts set out the placecards. At the head of the table, Marc continued to slump and glare, and Pepper eyed him surreptitiously, trying to decipher from a room length away if she’d be able to defuse his temper with dancing, later, or if she’d be better off singing. Or staying silent. That was becoming her best trick, of late, as he sank deeper and deeper into his most recent spate of black funks and vile humor. Keeping silent and small- smart, but not too smart- friendly but _don’t make friends_ \- winsome but not fashionable, and above all, above everything else, seem content and placid and _unobjectionable-_

Pepper relaxed her fist again, and took a deep draught of the wine, thanking the Butler for his attention to her glass. The guests were starting to look about the room with interest, instead of at their dessert plates. Time to tread carefully through the minefield of Marc.

Pepper took a last fortifying sip of wine and tilted her chin up, head cocked just a little to one side. Marc, ever the hawk, frowned down the long length of the table at her. She let her smile stretch just a little, welcoming his inspection. His frown deepened before he straightened a bit and nodded. Pepper felt a wave of relief crash over her shoulders and settle there like a cape.

Marc straightened and said something shortly to the butler now at his elbow, and then, looking less grim, announced something to the people seated nearest to him, who began to shuffle. Servants flew forward to assist with chairs, with standing, as the whole party effortlessly shifted from the table to the dancing hall.

As easy as that, thought Pepper sadly. If only she could shift the course of her life so easily.

Marc met her at the door, offering his arm and pulling her tight, pinching her hand in a hard grip. She smiled, as she was meant to smile, up at him, content and placid and above all, _pleasant_. Marc glowered back, but there was no fire, no heat, no anger in it. They led the small party towards the sound of music, Pepper considering again whether she should sit or dance, after they started the first set. What would Marc need, tonight? Silence, or a show of grace and beauty? His hand, clenching hers in a tight grip, offered no clues she could read.

They fell into perfect step with each other with the ease of long practice- long years between them, sighed Pepper deep within the quietest, most private parts of her soul. So many long years, since the excited young debutante had giggled behind her fan and nodded at the foreign nobility, holding out her hand for their first dance. So many long years of guessing- guessing right, guessing wrong- guessing and consequences. Her cheeks ached as she smiled contentedly up at Marc, his hand pressing against her back possessively.

“Did the old General have much to say, tonight?” he muttered quietly at her.

“Oh, we started in at the first, Marc, you know him, always teasing,” said Pepper lightly, treading lightly across the floor, treading as lightly as she could across everything, as lightly as air, as lightly as- as nothing, as a wisp, as-

“He loves your colonial spirit,” Marc informed her, again, as he always did. He didn’t frown, this time, and Pepper felt her heart raise, flutter once. Maybe, maybe she’d read the signs wrong, and Marc was- was in a lighter mood, less volatile. Maybe the distance at the table had made her think the worst, when he was- “And Lady Augusta?”

Pepper would never know why she said it, the way she said it, because she _knew better_ , slight relief should not have made her tongue so unguarded, not around Marc, not when she had been reading the signs all night. She chuckled and shook her head, smiling up at him to say with exasperation, “She enlisted my help in finding a colonial beau for her weak-chinned sister, Marc, can you believe it?”

Marc’s expression immediately darkened. “And did you say you’d do it, girl?” he growled lowly.

Pepper almost stumbled at the sudden menace, and it was too late, she’d let her smile falter, he’d seen it, her shock and fear, only he never saw it as fear, did he? Always just disappointment and censure. “No, Marc,” she breathed, thinking _dammit, dammit, dammit, it was going so well, dammit._ “No, I’d never, never without-”

“Bah,” he dismissed her, shoulders hunching slightly. “You could live a hundred years in high society, m’girl, and still tread straight into the nearest landmine.”

“I- I-” she stammered, smile pasted back on, face serene. They nodded as one at their nearest dancing partners, ever the Lord and Lady hosts, gracious and gentile, perfect, perfect and poised. Pepper’s head whirled with anxiety and doubt, retracing everything said, everything done, every small sign she’d misinterpreted, that one moment of unchecked words. _Damn damn drat and damn_ , she thought, feeling Marc’s hands clutch against her skin that much more roughly.

“I’ll fix it,” he sighed, clucking his tongue. “Whatever damage you have done, I will fix it. Again.”

Again. Again and again and again.

Pepper pressed her lips into the perfect smile of contentment, her face serene and smooth.

Again and again and again.

~~~

Later that night, in her rooms, her hands trembled as her maid- a slight, wispy woman named Mary with a severe face, chosen by Marc for her staunch character and impeccable references- helped her from her evening gown. Pepper removed the earrings from her ears and thought, quietly, that at least tonight Marc would be caught up with cigars and the young hotheads who stayed up late in the night to discuss the War. Even her silent presence at the table nearest the musicians with the other dowagers hadn’t bought her any approval from him, tonight.

No, thought Pepper on a sigh, drawing off the thick necklace and placing it in the velvet box, she’d be in for the full dance, tomorrow, of supplication and apology, of frantic reconciliation. 

Lord Marc Potts entertained but rarely, at his country estates. He entertained but rarely, and kept from the crush of the cities, and so Pepper, too, stayed home. Home with the servant-spies to ensure she did nothing, said nothing, _thought nothing_ that was not the perfect Lord’s wife’s thoughts and words and deeds. Home with nothing to do but read, read and think and say nothing about what she read and what she thought. Nothing not approved first by Marc.

She caught a glance of her maid behind her, Mary’s mouth turned down in her habitual frown as she worked the many buttons and fastenings of Pepper’s perfectly unobjectionable evening gown. Pepper, at 28, had fit right in with the dowagers at the table nearest the music, their dresses of the same severe cut and placid coloration. Nothing ever even slightly audacious for the Lady Potts, no.

The young girl, breathless with excitement for the trip to England, for adventure, for true love, deep within Pepper continued to cry quietly in disappointment.

So many long years, thought Pepper, and guarded the thought from Mary’s sharp gaze.

“Come have a wash, my lady,” said Mary quietly, sliding the many layers of garments from Pepper’s hips with practiced hands. 

“Yes, Mary,” sighed Pepper. Her head throbbed, and her throat was choked on the bitter sense of failure. 

“Eh,” breathed Mary. “You’ve started early.” Pepper twirled a little and caught sight of the underlayers in the woman’s hands, stained now with spatters of blood.

Pepper stared and stared at them, then looked up at Mary. Mary’s gaze was pitying, pitying and condescending, Mary of the three children in the servant’s quarters, who tumbled about her like puppies on her Sunday afternoon stroll to town. “Well, my lady, next month,” she said, as she said every month, sifting through Pepper’s laundry, knowing things Pepper wouldn’t share with anyone, if she had her choice, had her say. And certainly she would never pick Mary, impossible to please Mary, for confidant. 

Mary folded Pepper’s bloody laundry carefully and said shortly, “I’ll say my prayers.” Implied, of course, was the belief that her prayers would do more towards the creation of the next Lord Potts than all of Pepper’s own hopes and dreams and fervent prayers.

Pepper felt her eyes fill and closed them, nodded shortly, as serenely as she was able to. No need to make a fuss or cause a scene- that, too, would be reported to Marc, along with the news of this month’s failure. She forced her voice into careful courtesy, nothing more, as she murmured, “Yes, thank you, and I’ll need that wash, please, Mary.”

“Yes, m’lady,” agreed Mary, bustling about with the laundry held cautiously from her own fecund womb.

Mary would fill the bath, tonight, instead of the basin, Pepper reminded herself, taking down her hair and trying not to look at herself in the mirror more than was strictly necessary. Mary wasn’t _unkind_. She’d fill the bath, and have warm milk and biscuits brought up from the kitchens, and go up the stairs to her apartments on the third floor with her husband, the butler, and their happy, round-cheeked children, and- and-

It wasn’t _fair._ It wasn’t _fair_ , to have promised Marc to honor and obey, ‘til death do us part, and to have, every month, this monthly disappointment of all of her hopes for someone to love and dote on, someone to- someone to be _hers_ , some company here, someone she wouldn’t have to step _carefully_ around, be _guarded_ against. It wasn’t _fair_ , wailed the young girl deep inside her.

 _Almost_ every month, she reminded herself slowly, breathing in and out as she laid pin after pin on the bureau. She glanced at her eyes, red-rimmed in the mirror. Because there had been those, too- those months when there’d been more hope than ever, but never- never more than four months, in a row, before the pain and the blood and the-

She swallowed, a naked woman standing in the center of her husband’s lands, a naked jewel in its ornate casement, without any smaller chips set beside it for comfort, for support.

 _I don’t know_ , she thought carefully to the woman in the mirror, _how much longer I can go on._

 _'Til death do us part_ , reminded her reflection.

Her hand rose to her stomach and settled there. _Death parts us already_ , she thought dully, because that was the root cause, wasn’t it? All the hopes and dreams of that first child, carried so long and born in blood and pain, too soon, too soon- her breath choked, as it always did, when she re-broke her heart remembering how nearly she’d almost lived out the young girl’s fairytale of happy hearth and home. And all the ones since, all those months of desperate hope, as waves of nausea and exhaustion settled over her, only to lift, lift and leave her alone with her shattered hope.

Her shattered hope, and her husband.

“M’lady?” called Mary.

“Coming, Mary,” called Pepper back, ripping her gaze from the woman in the mirror, pulling her hands from her stomach and clenching them by her side.

~~~

It was a complete shock, a week later, for Marc to announce that they’d be traveling to his business partner’s family home in a fortnight, another gathering, small and intimate- _good old Theodore invited the General, that should please you, girl_ \- for an American, which he said should also please Pepper.

How an American she’d never met would please Pepper any better than the British men and women she lived with, Pepper didn’t bother to puzzle over much. Marc had made it perfectly, crystally clear that he’d made a mistake by looking for a wife out of the Empire, and now he was bound and determined to see it through with a stiff upper lip and _no whining_. 

Wear the dark blue thing, he’d said to her. 

Pepper had nodded, her mind racing.

~~~

When they arrived and Pepper was handed out of the car, she looked around once with scant interest, as she knew well the home of _good old Theodore_ , her husband’s best business partner. Her attention was immediately arrested by a very unusual sight. The American, obvious as such by his choice of fashion, bounced on his toes as he strode from his own vehicle, parked further down the drive. He paused a moment, hesitated, his face shocked and wide open for a second as she glanced over at him. They froze, he as shocked as she was, and then Marc held back his hand, imperious, and she glided to his side and _did not look back_.

He moved, thought Pepper later, standing in the reception line to the right of the hosts as the guests of highest rank, with more energy than all of Mary’s three children on their Sunday stroll, fingers tapping on his fashionable cane, eyes flickering from art to vase to tile to face with the same electric and open curiosity. Anthony Stark- call me Tony- _whirled_ through the hallway, completely unconcerned by the glares and stares and ruffled feathers he caused, entirely confident, his gaze steady and direct on each face, unhumbled by the walking and resting and gossiping scions of all of British high history around him.

 _Oh_ , thought Pepper, captivated. _Oh, teach me that. Teach me that trick._

To walk- to _whirl_ \- instead of to slide and glide, smoothly, causing not a single ripple- to _cause ripples_ and not care. No, she saw him note them, she saw him take it in the reactions of the people around him. He wasn’t an idiot American, bumbling through, he _saw_ what he caused, how he unsettled the placid upper crust of this backwood British society, he _saw_ it, and he _kept going_.

 _Oh, teach me that_ , she thought longingly, as he approached her in the reception line.

He took her hand, curled his fingers to lift her palm until his lips touched her knuckles and she felt a- a tug, a pull, so strongly she almost took a step forward, towards him. He smiled up at her, sunnily, a cocky grin, and said, “My Lady Virginia Potts, is it?”

“It is,” she replied, flattered, and for once she couldn’t help it, couldn’t hide it.

“Call me Tony,” he suggested, noting her smile with those same liquid eyes that noticed the pearls around her neck and the crystals in the chandelier above.

Marc shuffled his feet beside her and she remembered- remembered all kinds of things, with a deep sigh, down in her soul, pushing herself down into the shape she should fit. “Mm,” she hummed quellingly, letting her hand drop. “Mr. Stark, my husband, the Lord Marc Potts.”

“Marc!” greeted the American, holding out a hand. He moved on to the next lady in the line, the middle-class, middle-aged, middle-sized Helena Brinks, going through the forms quickly, incorrectly calling her m’Lady, as well, American as he was. His voice was loud and filled Pepper’s head as he spoke to Helena’s husband, the host, “Glad to get out of the hotel, thank you for the invite. Great spread you got here. Not _quite_ like the old homestead back in New York, but nothing like the sprawling, ghost-choked castle I’d expected. No drawbridge!”

“No drawbridge,” repeated Marc stuffily, barely more than a puff of air.

If Pepper could have bitten her lip, she would have. As it was, she knew her eyes were a bit wider than they should have been.

The butler, thankfully, announced dinner, and she slid her hand into Marc’s arm with practiced ease, to lead the way with him after the General, as people of rank. The American capered and cavorted behind them, messing up the ancient orders of precedence by wandering between the people he knew in the shuffle.  
  
Pepper found herself biting her lip and forced herself to _let it go_.

 _Oh, teach me,_ she thought again, as Marc seated her with a firm push of her chair. _Oh, please._

~~~

Mr. Stark was a _storyteller_.

He held the entire table enthralled with tale after tale, drawing out dinner as if his life depended on the next laugh, the next gasp of the audience. Even Marc was drawn in, sitting forward and rocking back with surprise at one point. The General shot Pepper a look of pleasure over dessert and Pepper beamed back at him- they were absolutely of one accord, it was so nice to hear _new stories._

And then, of course, it turned out he could dance, and it turned out he didn’t believe that dowagers and confirmed wallflower wives like the Lady Potts should sit out. Marc was on the other side of the room, but finally Lady Gertrude, white haired and wrinkled, leaned forward and wrapped her knuckles on the table and declared, “You’ll dance, Lady Potts, and take him and all of his flair far from our quiet corner, please.”

So she’d danced with the American.

Twice.

And for all he’d held the entire table absolutely enthralled through the long dinner, he was entirely silent, holding her in his arms, his dark eyes on her face, searching and searching and searching and finding- _what?_

What was there to find, to see, in her face, but a lifetime of disappointment, of squeezing herself down smaller and smaller to _fit_ the place Marc made for her in his life?

When he released her, she stumbled, only for a second, breathless, and said, “I need- some air, I believe. Thank you for the dance.”

“My pleasure,” he said, the words weighted with- with- 

Pepper shook her head and smiled at him, and if it was more genuine than her usual polite grimace, well. Hopefully no one would notice.

~~~

She stood in the cool air of the balcony, the dark blue dress with all of its rich embroidery rippling slightly in the breeze, and told herself firmly to _breathe_ and _calm herself._

Footsteps rang on the marble behind her, and although she told herself it could be Marc shifting back the heavy curtains dividing this world from the one within, she recognized already the bounding rhythm, the slight skip. Her heart sped up, but she told herself not to be silly, not to turn.

“My Lady Virginia Potts,” enunciated Tony Stark, as if he enjoyed every last syllable as it slipped between his lips, striding toward her with those same eager steps. He paused a moment, at her back, before leaning beside her on the balustrade, flipping suddenly to face her. “You dance like-”

No, not empty compliments from him, she thought with an ache, lifting a hand up, stalling him. She lifted her gaze to him, and felt something blaze within her to match the fires smouldering in his gaze. She shook her head against the sudden warmth and warned him, “I dance like a woman who sits with the dowagers to calm my husband’s fears, Mr. Stark. You should leave.” _No, please, teach me_ , some part of her wailed. But that part was wrong, her long lonely decade had taught her that. It was all right to come on vacation and ruffle feathers, but after all, the man didn’t have to live here, did he? Easy to ruffle and leave, move on-

“I probably should,” he chuckled, and then, with a deep breath and a cocky grin, “But I think I can take him.”

Pepper felt shock shoot through her. As easy as that, then? To walk through the world, sizing up everyone, deciding, choosing what rules to follow and what rules _didn’t apply_ because you were stronger or faster or- or- 

But another part of her, deeper, wondered pointedly, _Why did_ you _never think of that?_

She tilted her head and considered him slowly, as he stood for her inspection, face open, eyes wide. “And your opinion of me?”

“Oh, you can take him, too,” said Mr. Stark earnestly, with a smirk. “Guy’s a chump and you’ve got a good back. Aim for the knees, he’ll never expect it.”

Pepper arched an eyebrow and expanded, “No, your opinion of whether or not you could take _me_ , Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark stared back at her for a long, still moment, while the glittering world of local high society danced and gossiped behind them and out in the dark, the life of the country probably continued its plodding pace toward the placid future, too. 

Finally, he mumbled somewhat awkwardly, the first awkward thing she’d ever seen him say or do all night, “Not until you let me, Lady Potts.”

 _Good answer_ , said a quiet voice deep inside her. Lady Virginia Potts took a deep breath, so deep it made the fringe on the dress shudder and shake, and blew it out. “Call me Pepper,” she offered serenely.

“Tony,” he said firmly, lifting her hand to press his lips to the back of it.

“Delighted,” she assured him, laughing internally at the ridiculousness of the reintroduction.

He smiled back, ducking his head and looking at her from under his lashes, suddenly boyish and almost shy. “I’m not- I’m here for business, Pepper.”

 _Oh_. It hurt, but, but she could already see the next few weeks unroll before her, all of the choices and consequences, the failed marriages she’d heard about, the way her mother would sob and wail, _But to throw it all away for a_ fling _, Pepper!_ She saw it all, and welcomed it. No more long years, no more long wait. A quick crash, a faster burn, and this man, with his dark eyes and fast smile, with his certainty that she could _take_ him, this man at the center of it all. _Yes_. _Yes! Do it, now, girl._

Tony took a deep breath and then whispered, “I mean to make you my business, Pepper.”

 _Oh._ It was there, in his eyes, it was all there. The shock of realization raced along her veins, filling them, pumping racing blood through sluggish channels. “Mr. Stark,” she breathed.

“Tony,” he corrected, slow and sure, his hand raising up to caress, so gently, her cheek and throat, softly, so soft, gentler than Marc’s grasping hands had ever been.

“Mr. Stark,” she repeated, tilting her head, her lips quirked in the smallest smirk.

“Sounds good,” he smiled back at her, leaning forward.

The kiss felt inevitable. Inevitable and _incredible_.

~~~

Six months later, the car slowed to a stop and she leaned back from the window to turn and say, with false disappointment, “But, Tony, yours doesn’t have a drawbridge, either.”

His laughter rang in her ears, but it was his shining, sparkling eyes that made her lean in and kiss him again.

Again and again and again, forever and ever, _‘til Death do us part_.

**Author's Note:**

> So, these stories are just scenes that I can't fit into the regular series (OBVIOUSLY, YOU READ THIS ONE, IT REALLY DOESN'T FIT), but that bugged me until I actually wrote it out. They're not intended to go anywhere.


End file.
